


of sunlight and smoke

by tgtchm



Category: The Grand Tour (TV) RPF, Top Gear (UK) RPF
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-30
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2019-01-26 17:08:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12562160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tgtchm/pseuds/tgtchm
Summary: Jeremy has a big hand resting possessively on his knee, and as he blows smoke out the window he thinks that maybe, just maybe, this is all he needs from life. (alternatively, Jeremy steals James' pot and he and Richard share a joint on a windowsill)





	of sunlight and smoke

**Author's Note:**

> this one was only published like 2 weeks ago lmao but it's back here anyways
> 
> inspired by episode 5 of the grand tour, with poor stoned james in the netherlands LOL

After the millionth time, you’d think Richard would be accustomed to Jeremy barging his way into hotel rooms with absolutely no regard for privacy—but of course, he’s not. Which is when Jeremy does exactly that one morning—Richard knows he should have locked the bloody door between their rooms, but he’d completely forgotten about it—Richard leaps a foot in the air and squeaks, an entirely unbecoming noise. “Jeremy, you—”

“Hammond!” Jeremy bellows, closing the door behind him and grinning wickedly. That grin always means trouble, but it also does something to Richard’s trousers, so he swallows his complaints. “Look what I’ve got.”

And he produces, from behind his back, a ubiquitous baggie, somewhat crumpled but still half-full. “Is that,” he starts, putting his phone down and leaning back in his chair, “what I think it is?”

“If what you think it is is some of the finest herbaceuticals the Dutch have to offer, then yes, it is what you think it is,” Jeremy says, waggling his eyebrows. “But that’s not even the best part. It’s _James_ ’.”

Richard levels him with a stare, resisting the urge to smile even the slightest amount because it will simply egg him on—and when Jeremy gets in one of these moods, the last thing he needs is egging on. “You do know where we are, Jeremy? He can just go out and buy some more. In fact, you could have just gone out and purchased some. Why on earth did you bother stealing his?”

“Because it’s funny,” Jeremy replies with a shrug, sitting on the bed and kicking his long legs out in front of him. “And because I know it will drive him mental. Besides, look how much there is. I’ll put it back when we’re done.”

“When _we’re_ done?” Abandoning his hopes of not egging Jeremy on—it is clear he’s committed to this path already and nothing Richard can do or say will stop him, so he may as well come along for the ride—he gets off the chair and moves to sit next to Jeremy on the bed, pressing their thighs together and musing, for what must be the thousandth time, at how large Jeremy is in so many different ways. “I don’t smoke anymore.”

“You will when I roll you the best joint the world has ever seen.” Jeremy says this seriously, solemnly, like it’s a promise, and Richard can’t help but smile.

“I have a non-smoking room,” Richard points out somewhat desperately. His protests are getting weaker and weaker, he knows, because with the way Jeremy is looking at him—that slight grin on his face, eyebrows raised, eyes sparkling with mischief—he is finding that the idea of the joint is more and more appealing after all, despite the multitude of things they have to get done today.

“So we’ll smoke out the window. They’ll never know.” It’s a typically dismissive attitude, but Richard’s resolve is entirely weakened by now, so he doesn’t protest further.

Jeremy puts his hands in his jacket pocket and pulls out rolling papers—he must have pilfered those from James’ room, too. It’s almost painful to watch him try to roll a joint; it’s been years since Richard last saw him smoking rollies and, after a few moments of Jeremy getting pot all over his knee, Richard huffs and elbows him gently. “Let me do it, you pillock.”

“I wanted to roll it on the thighs of nubile Cuban women.” Jeremy pouts, and it’s so strangely endearing that Richard’s stomach does a backflip. “And if I couldn’t find any nubile Cuban women, I would have settled for rolling it on _your_ thighs.”

“Maybe the next one,” Richard replies evenly, trying to bat away the image of Jeremy attempting to roll a joint on his naked thigh. It’s an absurd image, one that shouldn’t be erotic but somehow is, and he knows that Jeremy’s maddening attempt at flirting—clumsy and heavy handed, just like he is—is working, somehow. “Do you have anything for a roach?”

As Richard expertly assembles the joint—it’s been a while since he’s done this, but he finds it’s like riding a bike; you never quite forget—Jeremy fumbles in his wallet for a business card before finding one and triumphantly holding it up. “Always wanted to burn one of these,” he says, and winks at Richard.

It’s one of his own, slightly rumpled and dirty and adorned with the BBC logo. Richard snorts and takes it from him regardless, muttering something under his breath about what the _Daily Mail_ would say if they heard any of this, and Jeremy pinches him and tells him to stop behaving like James. Richard nearly retaliates, but at this point his mouth is practically watering at the prospect of sharing this joint with Jeremy, and when he finishes he holds it up triumphantly—not unlike the way Jeremy had when he walked in the room. “There. You’re welcome. D’ya have a light?”

They move to the windowsill and perch precariously on it, although Jeremy takes some convincing to clamber up there (“Richard, there is _no way_ I can—oh, for Christ’s—this better be worth it”). Once they’re all arranged, Jeremy produces a lighter and lights the joint for Richard, who inhales gratefully and closes his eyes. Their legs are entangled—there’s not much room on the windowsill after all—and Jeremy has a big hand resting possessively on his knee, and as he blows smoke out the window he thinks that maybe, just maybe, this is all he needs from life.

“Stop hogging it,” Jeremy admonishes a moment later, and obligingly Richard places the joint between his lips. He takes the opportunity to trail his hand down the side of Jeremy’s face as he does, the skin there rough under his fingertips, and bites back a smile. Touching Jeremy is sometimes alien, but today it’s familiar and warm—although that may have more to do with the way his mind is beginning to fog over than anything else.

They probably shouldn’t be doing this where they could easily be spotted, but this part of the hotel looks out onto a side street that’s abandoned as far as Richard can tell, so he shrugs those worries away as Jeremy passes the joint back to him. Even that simple touch of their fingers brushing has shivers running up and down his spine, and he finds that he really, really wants to lean forward and kiss Jeremy. So he does. Jeremy kisses him back languidly, one hand winding gently through his hair, pulling back and laughing when the tip of the joint, still in Richard’s hand, drifts perilously close to his jeans. “If you ruin my favourite pair of jeans, Hammond, I will run you over in my…” he trails off and scrunches up his face, clearly searching for a model of car. “With… with an original C-Class. It will be very painful. I expect the bonnet ornament will go up your bottom.”

“That’s not the only thing that will,” Richard counters suggestively around the joint, waggling his eyebrows and laughing when Jeremy pulls a face.

“You are a sad, crude little man.” Jeremy is shaking his head, but Richard can sense the fondness between his words and, in one smooth movement—albeit not a smooth as he’d intended, since he nearly goes toppling out of the window—turns so his back is resting against Jeremy’s chest. “A sad, crude, _clingy_ little man,” Jeremy adds, but his hands come around to pull Richard closer anyway.

Richard just hums with contentment and hands the joint—down to the roach now—back to Jeremy before relaxing. He loves being close to Jeremy like this; there’s something about him that feels so secure. Perhaps it has to do with the size difference, or perhaps it’s just some essence that is so uniquely Jeremy, but he’s never felt quite at home before like he does in Jeremy’s arms. As hyperactive as he usually is (although he is slowing down with age, regrettably), it’s here that he feels no desire to move or speak. Although, again, that’s probably the Netherland’s finest doing the work for him.

“But I’m _your_ sad, crude, clingy little man,” he sighs as Jeremy stubs out the roach on the windowsill.

He feels Jeremy nuzzling at his hair, and then he’s kissing his ear, his neck, his cheek, and it’s so intimate Richard shivers. “Yes, you are,” Jeremy whispers hoarsely into his ear, and Richard closes his eyes, leans back, and sighs in contentment.

“Love you, Jez,” he mumbles. He so rarely says those words, doesn’t really feel like he has to, not when he can communicate that through touch as he so often does. But with the sun shining on them both, and with the faint sounds of traffic in the distance, and with Jeremy’s legs stretched out either side of his—well, it feels right, is all.

He’s half expecting a smart remark back, but instead Jeremy just kisses his head again. “I know, Hammond,” he replies, and although he doesn’t say it back that’s ok. He doesn’t have to.


End file.
